Chapter 7 - The Shadow Across the Highway
The air on Route 89 suddenly felt ice-cold despite the scorching midday sun.
Tate slowly lowered the yellow paper, his thumb pressing tightly against the crisp edge of the note. The name "Raven" wasn't just a bird; it was the symbol of the Iron Ravens—a ruthless, highly dangerous rival outlaw faction that operated out of the borderlands south of Phoenix, a group the Black Mesa had maintained an uneasy, fragile truce with for years.
"Raven..." Big Mac growled under his breath, his hand instinctively dropping down to rest on the heavy leather holster tucked against his belt under his vest. "What the hell did Ghost get mixed up in?"
Tate didn't answer. He turned his eyes back down to Eli, who was standing beside his tiny blue bicycle, watching the heavy reactions of the adult men with growing fear.
"Eli," Tate said softly, his tone carefully controlled so as not to panic the boy further. "Did your dad ever talk to you about men with bird patches? Did anyone come to your house?"
Eli didn't answer right away. His small face suddenly drained of all its remaining color. His wide, dark eyes weren't looking at Tate anymore.
Eli was staring past Tate's shoulder, past the line of park motorcycles, looking directly across the two lanes of empty, sun-blasted asphalt toward the far side of the highway.
The boy's lower lip trembled violently, and a quiet, terrified whisper escaped his throat:
"That's... that's him..." Eli gasped out, pointing a tiny, shaking finger past Tate. "That's the man who was outside our house..."
Tate froze.
In one smooth, mechanical motion, Tate stood up from his knee, turning his heavy frame around to face the opposite side of Route 89. Beside him, Big Mac and the seven other Black Mesa bikers instantly shifted their positions, forming a solid, protective line of leather and steel in front of the small boy and his bicycle.
Fifty yards away, parked completely off the shoulder on the far side of the highway, sitting under the sparse shadow of a lone mesquite tree, was a heavy, jet-black SUV with dark tinted windows. The vehicle’s engine was idling silently, thin heat waves rising from its massive hood.
Standing beside the open driver’s side door was a tall, heavily built man in his late forties.
He was dressed in a dark cut-off denim jacket over a faded shirt, jeans, and heavy boots. Stenciled in brilliant, high-contrast silver across the back of his dark vest was a large, aggressive patch depicting a spread-winged silver raven gripping a bloody dagger in its talons.
The Raven Man stood motionless in the desert heat, his face unreadable behind dark, reflective aviator sunglasses.
And resting loosely in his left hand, dangling by its heavy chin strap, was a scratched, matte-black motorcycle helmet—a helmet custom-painted with three jagged white lightning bolts across the crown.
May you like
Tate’s breath caught in his chest.
It was Ghost’s helmet.
